


Wax Poetic

by zarahjoyce



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AND WE CAN BUILD THIS DREAM TOGETHER, F/M, Gen, Inspired by 'The Mannequin', Jon is an Artist, Modern AU, and Sansa is his muse, except not really, historical revisionism, idek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-09-06 20:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20297557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarahjoyce/pseuds/zarahjoyce
Summary: No,no. Jon doesn't need reasons why he's keeping Sansa Stark in his apartment. Regardless of how reviled her character wasorthe dark part of Westerosi history she represents, he's not going to destroy her - and that'sfinal.-Or, Jon is an ~artist~ and he makes a wax figure of the infamous historical figure Sansa Stark.Except she comes alivejustfor him.





	1. Chapter 1

She's his finest creation to date... and they want her to be fucking _destroyed_.  
  
"You've got to admit, Sansa Stark _is _one of the most hated historical figures from Westeros," Theon tells him now, moments _after _the museum officials have issued their decision and left the office. "And yet you _still _made a wax sculpture of her?" He clucks his tongue. "Not your wisest decision, mi amigo."  
  
Jon stands and runs a hand through his hair. "Why shouldn't I?" he asks his friend. "I've made one for each of her siblings Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Shouldn't I deliver the complete set and make one of her, too? Isn't she a Stark - like them?"  
  
"Yeah, but--" Theon gestures at the other sculptures, each striking a memorable pose Jon has deliberately chosen them to take. "_They're _beloved by historians and history nerds everywhere. I mean what's not to like? We've got _King Arthur_ in Robb, _Xena the Warrior Princess_ in Arya, basically fucking _Nostradamus _in Bran--"  
  
"And Rickon?" Jon challenges him, one eyebrow raised.  
  
"Baby Jesus, maybe?" Theon shrugs. "I don't know, all right! I don't _get _these things. I'm not a nerd."  
  
Jon grins at him. "And yet you work in a _museum _as an art restorer."  
  
"What can I say?" Theon lifts both arms heavenwards. "My hands are blessed by Michelangelo and Leonardo, Donatello and Raphael. I'm the fucking _Ninja Turtle_ of the Art World, my man." He pauses. "Plus, the pay's halfway decent."  
  
Jon shakes his head. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."  
  
He approaches the lone figure of Sansa Stark to his right. While the figures of the other Stark siblings on his left have been met with varying degrees of approval, hers... hasn't been.   
  
And _that's _putting things mildly.  
  
They've told him that they aren't taking her with the others. That they won't be showing _'The Whore of Westeros'_ in their exhibit. That they won't be paying him for his efforts, and that he'd better burn the wax figure - _or else_.  
  
Jon grits his teeth, even as he gently brushes the sculpture's red hair off the side of her face so that it isn't covering her eyes.  
  
Well, then.   
  
Fuck _them_.  
  
"What're you going to do about that thing, then?" Theon asks him, somehow sounding bored and curious at the same time.   
  
Jon drags his finger down the sculpture's jaw, mulling the question over.   
  
As an artist, he's built and destroyed hundreds of his own creations_ just because_ their end results didn't sit well with him despite hours upon hours spent making them. He's done the same with Arya Stark; even if she's commonly referred to as 'Horse-face' in history books he refused to incorporate it in his own rendition of her, hence his trial and error on how to make her look lovely without making her _too _attractive. Same with Bran Stark, whom he'd agonized over how he can mix in his youth with the ageless wisdom of the Three-Eyed Raven - resulting to his being recreated more times than Jon can care to count.  
  
But in Sansa Stark's case--  
  
\--her transition from drawing to wax sculpture to finished product has been so _seamless_, it'd felt like his hands have been guided by... _something_... when he was making her.  
  
And now here she stands before him, proud and magnificent and beautiful beyond ordinary words, and they want him to dispose of her?  
  
Well.   
  
Fuck _them_.  
  
"I'm not going to destroy her," he decides just then, glancing at Theon.   
  
After some moments he adds, "I'm taking her home with me."   
  
Theon snorts. "And that's not creepy in any way _at all."_  
  
"Shut up and help me." Jon pauses. "And be careful with her, all right? She's delicate."  
  
"She's _literally _made of wax, Jon--"  
  
"Theon--"  
  
"Fine, _fine." _Under his breath Theon adds, "Weirdo."__  
  
"I _heard _that."  
  


* * *

  
  
So now here they both are, in Jon's own apartment.  
  
He's contemplated on bringing and leaving her in his studio next door, but somehow Jon thinks that it isn't a good idea - hence the decision to have the wax sculpture stay in his living room slash kitchen, instead.  
  
"Thanks, man," he tells Theon as they both head towards the door. "I owe you one."  
  
"Don't you always?" Theon rolls his eyes at him. "One of these days I'll intend to collect, _and then_ where will you be?"  
  
"Oh I don't know." Crossing his arms, Jon says lightly, "Off paying your monthly rent _again _when you've forgotten it's due?"  
  
"It was _one time,_ dude. One _fucking _time!"  
  
Jon chuckles and closes the door behind him.   
  
So much for _that_, then.   
  
He eats his dinner in silence, casting glances at the wax figure every now and then. It'd really be a shame to melt her, Jon thinks, putting his plates away. Not only because of his own efforts in _making _her, but because--  
  
No, _no._ Jon doesn't need reasons why he's keeping Sansa Stark in his apartment. Regardless of how reviled her character was _or _the dark part of Westerosi history she represents, he's not going to destroy her - and that's _final_.  
  
He rubs his palms together. It's a particularly cold day earlier, and tonight even more so. Jon puts on a sweater and sets the coffee maker to do its work, intending to go online and look for other museums he can work with. Perhaps he can even reclaim the wax work of the Stark siblings from the Martells and trade them - including Sansa - someplace else. Is Madame Tussauds hiring, by any chance?  
  
_Of _fucking _course,_ he'll just need to come up with enough money to pay them back for commissioning him in the first place. No big deal there.  
  
_Yeah, right._  
  
Jon then takes another jacket out of his closet and drapes it over Sansa Stark's figure. He's straightening it around her shoulders when he actually _realizes _what he's doing - and stops.  
  
"God," he laughs. "I _am _a weirdo." He then heads to the coffee maker. Surely one cup of coffee will do wonders to him and his senses.  
  
He's reaching for a cup when a _clearly _feminine voice behind him unmistakably says, "Thank you. It _is _rather cold tonight, I feel."  
  
Jon stills. Even his very breath gets stuck somewhere up his nostrils.  
  
Oh so slowly he turns, heart hammering like mad in his chest--  
  
\--and he's greeted by the sight of one _semi-smiling Sansa Stark_ staring right back at him.  
  
"Hello, Jon," she says softly.


	2. Chapter 2

For several moments, neither of them moves.   
  
Or speaks.  
  
Which is understandable, given that one of them is a _wax figure _five fucking seconds ago and the other--  
  
\--foregoes breathing in lieu of staring.   
  
Staring is _good_. Staring is _safe_. Staring is a good way to check if originally non-moving things started fucking moving and-- _oh god--_   
  
Jon scrambles backwards immediately when Sansa Stark lifts a staying hand towards him. He hits his coffee maker so hard the liquid sloshes to the side, out of its container and onto his hand - but he barely notices it scalding his skin.  
  
Who the actual fuck would, given that he's staring at a sculpture he himself had molded, but is now moving and breathing and-- talking?  
  
To him?  
  
_Shit.  
  
_Is he high? Is he actually _high _right now? Jon can't tell - something that straight up _scares _him.  
  
Well, aside from the figure currently looking at him with the bluest eyes he'd managed to gift her, that is.   
  
"Don't be afraid," she says, ironically enough, as she takes a small, hesitant step towards him. "Jon--"  
  
_"No!"_ Jon yells, holding both hands in front of him. "No. S-Stay where you are. You're-- you're--"  
  
Sansa folds both hands in front of her and says nothing.  
  
"I mean y-you _can't _be," he continues, talking more to himself than to her. "Moving and-- you're a sculpture and I made you._ I made you!"_  
  
She purses her lips. "It's more of the fact that I _guided _you into making this body so that I can inhabit it." Sansa pats her skirt and says, "Although the fabric you used for my clothes leaves _much _to be desired."  
  
Lord, _none _of this is making sense. "What?"  
  
"We used real fur in Winterfell," she continues, looking around her now. "I had hoped that much was clear from whatever tales managed to survive to this time." Sansa Stark takes particular interest in the texture of his sofa as she runs her hand on top of it--  
  
\--and isn't _that _an odd sentence to string together. Jon pulls at his mouth. "I'm... sorry?" he tells her, watching carefully as she moves to inspect his TV set. "I wasn't really--"  
  
She glances at him, as if waiting for him to continue.  
  
Jon moves his hands about as he attempts to explain, "--expecting that you'll say something about it." He pauses and adds, skating at the edge of hysteria now, "Or anything _at all_, really."  
  
"It's quite all right," Sansa Stark tells him. She moves towards him again, and this time he manages to stand his ground, somehow. "I know my presence must be a shock to you, and I apologize for it."   
  
Something about her is oddly riveting. Jon finds himself unable to look away from her face, from that beautiful mouth - that not long ago has been so pliant under his own fingers. "Does-- does this mean that this-- _that_," he corrects, pointing at her in general, "is really how you look?"  
  
She twitches her lips in what he supposes _can _be interpreted as a smile. "Do you find me repulsive?"  
  
"_God _no," he replies quickly before he can stop himself. Jon clears his throat. "I mean, history books often refer to you by your color - _the Red Wolf_. Not much about your..." He gestures at his own face. "Features."   
  
"Yes, Jon," she says, sounding amused. "_This _is how I truly look. I'm not as hideous as many would want you to believe."  
  
It shouldn't be surprising. _None _of this should be surprising! Many had claimed that Sansa Stark really _was _a beauty - but her reputation had been marred by the fact that she used it to beguile people into waging wars for her own benefit. To loot and pillage in her name.   
  
To seduce her own half-brother into leaving his beloved Targaryen Queen.  
  
"No one said that," he tells her. At her look he adds, "That you're hideous, I mean. Everyone's in agreement that you're very... beautiful."  
  
Something in her expression sours just then. "Just as they are in agreement in calling me _The Whore of Westeros_?" she asks, a bite in her tone.  
  
He grimaces. "That's--"  
  
"--Out of your hands, I'm well aware." Sansa Stark then perches at the very edge of his sofa, sitting as proper and as lady-like as any he's seen. "And that's why I would like to ask for your help, Jon Snow."  
  
"Me?" he asks incredulously. "You're asking for _my _help?"  
  
Sansa Stark nods. "I've waited for hundreds of years for someone whose hands I can trust," she says, rising to her feet and approaching him. Taking his hands in her own she continues, "I've _never _guided anyone else into recreating me. Only _you_, Jon."  
  
She's warm, he notices immediately. Her hands felt small and soft against his own. This close, he can notice the rise and fall of her chest, the way her mouth works, the freckles dusting her cheeks--  
  
If he had any doubts before, well--  
  
\--they are long gone now.  
  
One question remains, however.  
  
"How?" he asks her. "_How _are you alive?"   
  
She blinks, seemingly caught surprised at the question. "I-- I don't know," Sansa Stark says. "I don't know how, exactly. But what I do know is that I can breathe again, only after you've made me."  
  
Jon looks down at their hands.   
  
God, this can't be real.   
  
This _cannot _be fucking real.   
  
And yet here they were, in his kitchen, the infamous historical figure Sansa Stark asking for struggling sculptor Jon Snow's help and--  
  
Someone knocks on his door, startling them both. She looks away from him just as Theon's voice carries into his apartment; Jon clears his throat again, mutters, "Sorry," before moving towards his door.  
  
He can't hide the small feeling of relief engulfing him, however. Theon is here; Theon would know what to do.   
  
Or, barring that, at least Theon would _also _be aware of Sansa Stark being fucking alive in his apartment and--  
  
"Sorry, sorry," his friend says, barging in and heading towards the table, "Can't _believe _I forgot my phone here, of all places! Stupid, right?"  
  
Jon closes his eyes. Any moment now, Theon will comment on the fact that there's _a woman_ in there with them. Any moment now, he'll make a crude statement about it and--  
  
"Hey, dude?"  
  
_Here it comes.  
_  
Jon inhales deeply and turns to look at him. "I can explain--"  
  
Theon's brows are raised as he says, "--the fact that your mannequin is wearing your jacket? Well, now that you've mentioned it--"  
  
_Wait, what?  
  
_Alarmed, Jon glances at Sansa Stark, and only then does he notice--  
  
\--that she's a wax figure once again.  
  
_Fuck!_


	3. Chapter 3

_"What?"_  
  
Jon pulls at his mouth and marches towards Sansa Stark. No-- _no._ She can't be-- she can't be a wax figure again! Not after having talked to her! Not after she said that thing about-- about her guiding his hands while creating her and--  
  
"No, no... no!" He places a hand against her cheek, finds it smooth but hard under his touch. Those eyes that have been so vividly _blue _while staring at him - flat and blank now. And her mouth--  
  
"Uh, dude? Do you want me to like. Leave right now--"  
  
Theon's question makes Jon turn towards him.   
  
"--because you sure as hell look like you need some _alone time_ with her, if you know what I mean." Theon's smirk is unmistakable.  
  
Jon exhales deeply, choosing to ignore the lascivious connotations of those words.  
  
He doesn't know what the fuck is going on but--   
  
It's now or fucking never.  
  
"You're going to think I'm crazy," he starts to say, "but you know I won't be telling you any of this if it didn't really happen, so--" Jon pauses a bit before plunging on, "trust me when I tell you that I swear to baby Jesus _she _was alive a few seconds ago, but now-- now she's _not."_  
  
Theon stares at him for roughly ten seconds.  
  
"Alive," he repeats, sounding nonplussed. "Her. I mean, that-- that mannequin. The one you made."  
  
"Yes," Jon replies, crossing his arms and glancing at the figure of Sansa Stark again. "I know how it sounds; _I'm _the one saying it. But she was talking and moving and--" He gestures at her skirts, "--complaining about the fabrics we used on her and, and-- where can we get real fur, anyway? Did you know that they wore real fur in Winterfell before? I mean I know we used some reference materials as basis for the costumes, but..."   
  
Theon chuckles, though he sounds too uncomfortable for it to be genuine. "Real fur, Jon? Really? Do you know just how fucking expensive real furs are? Unless you prefer hunting and skinning wolves or dogs or some shit then--"  
  
"Well--" Jon places his hands on his hips and studies Sansa's dress critically. "I don't know. She said she's more used to the real thing, so to make her more comfortable--"  
  
_"Fucking Christ,_ Snow!" Theon remarks loudly, taking Jon by surprise. "Okay. So I was thinking maybe you were just pulling my leg earlier but _this,_ dude--" He steps closer to Jon, puts a hand against his forehead. "Are you okay? Do you want some paracetamol or, I don't know, some Listerine? Maybe you should go lie down?"  
  
Jon slaps his hand away and glares at him. "I'm not sick."  
  
"Could've fooled me!" Theon says. "I mean what kind of not-sick dude says that his creation is _alive_, for fuck's sake?"  
  
"I don't know!" Jon tells him, moving towards his couch and sinks on it. "I don't know, all right? All I'm saying is that she was talking to me before you came in, and-- and I'm telling you because I sure as fuck don't know what to do about it!" He buries his face on his hands, struggles to breathe for a moment.  
  
Maybe he _has _gone crazy.   
  
Maybe he hallucinated _everything _about Sansa Stark being alive--  
  
\--because the alternative just sounds too fucking _fantastic_ to even be true.  
  
"Look, Jon." Theon sits beside him, awkwardly pats his back. "Maybe you're just... I don't know. Depressed? Sad? In need of attention from agood, honest woman? All these waxy fumes you've been inhaling, they must be bad for your brain--"  
  
_"Theon."_ Jon shakes his head. "Not. Helping."  
  
"Yeah, well." Theon stands up, heads to the door. "Anytime you need to go out and see real live girls, let me know. I'm about to meet one in a few minutes, anyway. Wanna come with?"  
  
Jon gives him a flat look in return.   
  
"Right." Theon shrugs. "Don't say I didn't try to help you."  
  
And the sound of Jon's door closing echoes behind his friend as he departs.

* * *

  
Suffice to say, Jon doesn't sleep well that night.  
  
He tosses and turns on his bed, his head replaying the conversations he's had with Sansa Stark - as if they were real.  
  
_Hello, Jon.  
  
Yes, Jon. _This _is how I truly look.  
  
And that's why I would like to ask for your help, Jon Snow.  
  
Only _you, _Jon._  
  
God, but those words are still ringing in his ears, made even more memorable by her voice. Jon's good and creative, all right, but he can't have conjured how Sansa Stark's voice sounded like. It's not similar to any he's ever heard; deep and authoritative, yet alluring and--  
  
_\--fuck._

Theon's right. Maybe he's just overworked. Maybe he's just tired. 

Maybe he just needs to have a fucking life outside of art.

He pushes himself up, aware that he isn't going to sleep a wink even if he tried.  
  
So. Order of business: first off is to dispose Sansa Stark's figure. He'll probably end up regretting it in the end - but then again, this whole thing _wouldn't_ have happened if he just did what he was told to do in the first place.   
  
Jon drags a hand through his hair, trying to find the resolve to implement his decision. _Right_. So, in a few hours, he's going to--  
  
The sound of his TV turning on catches his attention, however. Which is odd, because his fucking TV is not in his bedroom but in his living room and--   
  
As quietly as possible, Jon takes out the baseball bat he's hidden inside his closet and goes to the bedroom door. He tries to calm himself down and imagines that, soon as he opens his door, either of two things can happen:  
  
One, he will find an intruder snooping around his apartment.

Highly unlikely but much more preferable, if he's being honest.

Two, he will find--  
  
\--Sansa Stark with her hands on his TV screen, a look of bewilderment on her pretty face as she studies the images flashing on it.  
  
"They are so _tiny_, Jon," she says breathlessly, turning to look at him. "These men and women. How do they fit in this box? Where do they go, when they disappear? Can they-- can they see us? Because it does not seem like they can."   
  
Jon can _feel_ his shoulders slumping.  
  
Oh, sweet baby Jesus.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been listening to Starship's "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us" AND THIS IS THE RESULT IDEK
> 
> also also I'm sorry in advance if I get things about wax sculptures wrong I tried and no one can blame me probably (pls don't)


End file.
